Let Me Be Your Eyes
by DragoonHazuki
Summary: A long day at work was exhausting and Midorima found his thoughts cast back to the days when life and death felt paramount to the outcome of a match, the beat of a ball bouncing on the court synonymous with the thud of his heart. A basketball reunion turns his world firmly upon it's head, for how could he predict just what had happened in the time they'd been apart?


It was busy, the eddying gusts of fat snow flakes blew into his face and eyes, fogging his spectacles. It was quite rare for there to be snow this thick and he was less then thrilled about the way white drifts built up in the gutters till the melted slush was fattening deep puddles and making crossing all but inconvenient on days such like this. Stepping out, he ignored the way a shoulder jostled his left, then right. His fingers knit deeper into his pockets for lack of gloves and his breath culminated within the thick scarf that was wrapped about his face to catch hot breath. A long day at work had had the former basketball player exhausted, even with his change of job role. Just recalling had a scowl curve across his lips due south almost as if behest by Akashi's compelling words. How was Akashi, he wondered briefly, thoughts stolen back to those merry days when their whole, small world was on a basketball court and life and death was paramount to the outcome of the match.

He stumbled, the front of his foot catching the dropped kerb as he let his concentration lapse and he berated himself for the foolish act though didn't bother to glance about and see if anyone saw. He was insignificant in this seething mass of humanity and the only thing on his mind was a hot soak for his aching, cramped left hand and a meal before sleep.

He let himself in, there was no need to call welcome for occupants that didn't exist. Shoes softly eased off and placed upon a rack, above a practical mat. Eyes drifting over photographs that lined the walls with a touch of dust from where a busy job and a multitude of house kept him from keeping it well enough though it was hardly messy by any means. A few years post graduation from university had had him diagnosed; obsessive compulsive and somehow the realisation that he wasn't particularly anal because he wanted to be was comforting. Bag set down, sodden coat taken and shaken off before being hung on a peg.

A heavy noise escaped both from his lips and the chair he dropped himself into as he flicked the portable fire on and in lieu of a hot soak let the warmth build up slowly until any idea of food was forgotten in favour of the lull of sleep. He didn't sleep, but came so very close. Dozing off as the pain in his hand eased, a half-hearted thrust of negative emotion in regards to the arthritis that he had developed in it, at the back of his mind. Finally he peeled his frame from the comfortable couch, letting fingers rake his hair and slumped towards the bathroom. A bungalow hadn't been what he'd intended to get but he'd found a lazy kind of relief in the lack of stairs as he stripped off completely and dumped his clothes in the washing basked just outside. Door open, stepped in and already tugging shower curtain aside to turn it on and allow the room to grow ever more humid in a blissful increase of heat that chased away any thoughts regarding the terrible, shitty weather.

He took a moment, glancing in the mirror to note the dark marks beneath his eyes and examining his tongue for a moment, sticking it out far enough he might fancy he could touch his nose though he knew otherwise before yawning and stretching his body in a ripple of lean muscles as his arms lifted above his head. As the warm water pelted his emerald hair, he tipped back his face. For a moment he panicked, thinking he hadn't taken his glasses off only for the water to splash against his face as a whole and chase away those worries. He'd dumped them on the sink when glancing in the mirror hadn't he? Ah, so tired.

As he stood, letting the high pressure shower head pelt the expanse of skin between his shoulder blades with water, he reflected on the morrow. A reunion that he had only been made aware of last-minute by Miyaji whom he had only coincidentally run into in the emergency room thanks to an unfortunate tumble down the stairs, which was fortunately not as severe as the man had thought. Fast forward to the present, in which he had lathered up and washed the suds from his hair. Towelled dry with towels so soft they ought to be illegal prior to slipping into bed once heater was switched off in the living room. The thick blankets plus the reassurance of the alarm which had already been set, had had him sigh in relief as he stared at the slowly fading ceiling.

Jolting upright with a fearful gasp was quite the delight and he often thanked his alarm clock with a firm thump to the silencing button. Legs slipped out from beneath the blankets and finally the rest of his body reluctantly slithered free from the cocoon of warmth and out into the cold room. Midorima hated mornings, always had and always would do. A quick shower lead to him dressing comfortably but warmly, a touch of formality as always incorporated in his dress code more due to preference then anything else and as always he ensured he had his lucky item. Although he no longer bandaged his hand, and the care of his nails was equally intense for each hand by now he could never shake the need to keep an eye on his horoscope.

He'd tried once, and had been left feeling restless and vaguely panicked as if something terrible would go wrong. He'd struggled so much that a sympathetic co-worker had suddenly dumped the item in question on his desk in a wordless comfort that had caused his face to bloom red in embarrassment for his childish indulgence in that one particular habit and to mutter thanks in a way that he tried not to make churlish and dour.

No, he didn't have time to dally. The former doctor, now more a general practitioner with the occasional foray into the accident and emergency department as a consultant, would be late if he kept this up. Tugging a coat on, still somewhat damp from the day prior, he tugged on a scarf and as ever departed without gloves after shoving his mobile phone deep in his pocket. Seeking the nearest tube entrance, he paid to ride it and ascended the appropriate route, finally dismounting at his destination after one change of route and exiting the station as he took his time to catch his bearings.

Ah, he recognised the place that Miyaji had mentioned, a bar— It looked a little dirty in all honesty but Midorima wasn't the sort of person to drink in public anyway, not unless dragged there unwillingly to begin with. Entering, the heat fogged his glasses enough to leave him unprepared for the familiar yet also not familiar cry of 'Midorimacchi!' It wasn't impossible to identify the owner of course, more that he was so stunned by the sudden overwhelm of company— Familiar company, that he wasn't sure how to respond and with a soft cough to clear his throat he belatedly gave greeting, eyes scouring the room. Disappointment rose like a knot in his throat at the absence of his team mate whom had once promised and subsequently fulfilled, his claim that he would send the emerald haired basketball player a roaring pass.

He didn't ask, and oddly nobody offered an excuse for the man in question, leaving him time to mull over the possibilities with only a break here and there to offer comment or relate information regarding his circumstances. After all, nobody had spoken him for such a long time. It was a little shocking that they had all remained in close companionship, and oh had they changed. Kuroko was as weedy as ever but his lack of presence was almost a dream— If anything he would have been surprised to ever overlook the man again. Kise— He was more or less the same, save older and rather irritatingly, still attractive. No longer a model, although he did do a few things here and there. Midorima had always thought he would stick with that as a career choice and had been intrigued to find it was otherwise.

As time wore on and as the drink in his glass slowly ebbed, and lessened, he found himself forgetting the hawk who had been his main reason for attending this day, at least he did until the door opened. Glancing over because of the cold draft his eyes set on someone who could only be— And his lips curved into a broad smile that didn't feel natural— Takao.

But he couldn't move. Almost frozen in place, his eyes slid down to the gloved hand that was clutching a handle, and the dog to which the handle was attached to, marked a vivid yellow. Guide dog.


End file.
